


Mercurial [Blue Eyes Flashing]

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe, Doppelganger, Drinking Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Mercurial [Blue Eyes Flashing]

  


title: Mercurial [Blue Eyes Flashing]  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 1820  
fandom/pairing: McFassy  
rating: R  
notes: Written in December from a series of prompts by [gokuma](http://gokuma.tumblr.com) and [starrose17](http://starrose17.tumblr.com), and first posted [here](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/post/13726194748/gokuma-ninemoons42-gokuma-starrose17). McFassy AU: both of them are single, both of them are actors, and James is carrying a rather *unusual* secret around with him.

  
The first time it happens, they’re in a bar, and they’ve been drinking pretty much all evening long, and someone has bought them a tray of assorted jello shots. 

James turns up his nose at the violently colorful drinks, at first, but after Michael prods him into it he takes his first shot - he winces and shudders and laughs and he does that oddly endearing little hand-fluttering-over-his-mouth gesture of his, blue eyes squeezing shut.

Everyone cheers and Michael takes a shot in each hand, downs them in succession, grimaces and sticks his tongue out at the acrid sweetness and there is loud laughter and everyone seems to be there purposely to egg them on.

Which is why, several shots later, when there’s a hand on his shoulder and another on his thigh and there is the brush of lips against his temple, Michael leans in unthinkingly and turns his head for a proper kiss - only for James to pull away, and throw him a wobbly kind of smile, and then after two more shots he’s out and stumbling through the crowd, still more or less upright and heading in the general direction of the loo.

He comes back for the last shot on his part of the tray with a sort of grim determination, which Michael notices, but does not pay much attention to, because he is too busy getting smashed.

In the morning, downing multivitamins and drinking all the orange juice he can find in his flat, Michael suddenly remembers a strange flash in blue eyes, a strange movement of hands, that mouth moving in some kind of strange conversation-with-self. He remembers James sharply shaking his head and turning away.

In the harsh morning light, he wonders what the hell that was all about.

Two weekends later, Michael runs into James out clubbing.

This is enough to make him pick his jaw up from the floor because what the hell happened to the James who sat in all corners of the set working on cryptic crosswords when he wasn’t busy pranking _the living daylights_  out of everyone? What happened to the James who said he’d rather be at home reading? 

James is the center of attention on every dance floor and he’s absolutely shameless, laughing and smiling, and there is glitter in his hair and on his face and Michael gapes at him all night long, even when he, too, is swept away into the music and the rhythm.

And because this time Michael knows he’s stone cold sober when he gets kicked out of the last club at five a.m., he doesn’t miss the wink that James tips in his direction - or the start, and the fiery blush as he turns away. It’s a blush that honestly has Michael thinking all kinds of strange and lovely thoughts [namely, how far does it go, and how far can  _he_  make it go?].

The flash in those blue eyes haunts him for weeks and weeks, even as he goes off on the film festival rounds, even as he receives all kinds of messages on his phone.  _Looking good, champ. You couldn’t have worn a better shirt with that lovely suit? Bet you’ve got the world eating out of your hand now. Congratulations on the win! I can think of better uses for that trophy._

Some of the messages are signed and some are not, and that boggles Michael because he already _knows_  who the messages are coming from, and there is no need for the other man to sign off with the initial J.

The messages and the strange behavior fade away into the back of Michael’s mind when he finally gets a week off between one gala and another, and he and Steve sneak back into London for four days. He calls his dad and mum, tells them not to worry because he just needs a good long kip, and then almost immediately falls into bed and sleeps for twelve hours.

He’s trying to decide what he’s going to do for breakfast or lunch or dinner or whatever the hell it is he’s supposed to call this meal when there’s a knock on the front door. He nearly jumps clean out of his skin - and then he’s laughing, and he’s still sputtering when he puts on a t-shirt and opens the door.

Flash of blue eyes.

“Why am I not surprised,” Michael says, loudly, and he actually almost means it. He rolls his eyes as he opens the door and James slides in, ruddy-faced from the cold.

“Got takeaway,” James says as he puts several packages, a heavy leather jacket, and his motorcycle helmet onto the kitchen table.

“Fish curry?” Michael asks, hopefully, as he gets the plates and silverware out.

“Maybe,” and James winks at him.

Michael’s not sure he’s only imagining the changes in those eyes; the blues seem to be shifting - or is it just the light in the flat? But one moment that gaze seems to be darker, far more speculative, and then in the next James blinks and he’s back to the sunny smile. 

He could almost have been two people in one body, Michael thinks, and then he shakes his head sharply to dispel the thought.

“Something wrong?”

“Probably the jet lag. There were mornings when I couldn’t bloody remember where I was. I’m not even sure I’m back here in London yet, and I’ve got to fly back to LA in three days.” Oh, glory of glories, there  _is_  fish curry and Michael hums his thanks and digs in happily. “And how’d you find out I was here, by the way?”

James waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Steve.”

“You’re joking. So that’s how you’ve been keeping tabs on me,” Michael says, delighted. “After a while there I started to wonder if you hadn’t actually turned into Charles.”

“While I bet you’ve been as much of a chick magnet as Erik ever was,” James mutters into his fish and chips.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Michael says. There’s a devil running loose in him suddenly. He wants to know what’s going on. He wants to know about the flashes of light in those blue eyes. James in light and in dark, smiles full of secrets and smiles full of warmth. “After a while I also started to lose track of all the drinks and all the pickup lines - and I couldn’t even understand half of them.”

“People were using pickup lines on you?” James laughs and Michael doesn’t miss the shift. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It did too happen. Fuck you, McAvoy.”

“Name the time and place, Fassbender.” 

Michael smirks at him, shows a little bit of tooth.

Quiet gasp. James looks away. “Oh, shit. Oh  _fuck_  I did not just say that.”

“Sure you did,” and Michael slides closer. “You were only looking me right in the eyes when you said it.”

“What I mean is - that wasn’t me.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You wanna try making sense some time?” Pause. “Or you’re telling me it’s something more literal.”

The other man looks up at him, then, and then those eyes darken. “So you’ve found out our secret at last?” And that is not the voice Michael knows. It’s more commanding. It sounds like James and it sounds like the wrath of a summer storm.

And, again, Michael knows he is truly not surprised - though he is a little worried, and he asks, “Where does James go when it’s you?”

“In here,” not-James says, and taps his temple. “He’s here, and he’s currently panicking, because this would make you just about the only other person who knows about me, and he’s never exactly wanted that.”

“I could be hurt,” Michael says, “but why is that, again?”

“Because this,” not-James says, and he slides to his knees in front of Michael’s chair and grins up at him, blue-eyed devil, and leans in for a kiss.

This is a kiss that devours, a kiss that threatens to burn Michael alive, and he grins and tries to give back as good as he’s getting - and he doesn’t stop even when the hands that had been on his knees migrate to his shoulders and he’s being shaken.

“Stop,” and that is a more familiar voice, and Michael pulls away instantly.

James,  _James_  looks exactly like he’s been kissed breathless, and he’s shaking his head and trying to stammer out a response.

Michael rolls his eyes and leans in and murmurs, “Introduce us, please.”

“You’re not actually running for the hills,” James says, and that upward swing of his eyebrow is a gesture that belongs only to him.

“Only because I haven’t put on my shoes yet,” Michael says. “And also, my mamma raised me to be polite.”

“Even to people carrying fucking multiple personalities around in their heads.”

“I’m an  _actor_ , for fuck’s sake, and so are you, and you know damn well what my process is like, I might as well be carrying all my roles around in my head while I’m shooting.”

That sobers James up a little. “Yeah, okay, I remember that much.”

“So no, I’m not surprised - in fact, this explains a lot of things. Clubbing, almost kissing me, those signed texts.”

“He’s not exactly known for being subtle,” James says, and he finally seems to relax, although he does haul himself back into his chair, to Michael’s disappointment. “He prefers to be called Johnny.”

Michael gives him back that roguish grin. “He’s a hell of a kisser. I like him.”

The blush actually disappears below the collars of James’s shirts.

James is looking away, now, and Michael thinks he might just know what’s going on. Also, he’s got an excuse. Till right now his brains have been completely scrambled by all the traveling and the red-eye into Heathrow, but now that he’s got some food in him and this particular side of James before him, he knows.

Or he hopes he knows.

Michael takes a deep breath and murmurs, “And here I thought we were friends, James. Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

James goes from dark red blush to pale-faced faster than Michael can grin at him - but to his credit, he rallies almost immediately, and he tilts his head curiously to the side. “Do you want me back on my knees?”

“The two of you talk it over, tell me what you want,” Michael says, easily and recklessly. 

That blue flash again. James’s open smile and Johnny’s calculating eyes.

Michael grins and braces his feet, and spreads his hands to him/them.  



End file.
